


Dreamers With Empty Hands

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, alternative universe, meet cute, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Peter and Neal meet cute at Elizabeth and Mozzie's wedding.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fifth edition of Caffrey-Burke Day, celebrating the seventh anniversary of the premier of White Collar (October 23, 2009). Also, a fill for the prompt left for my by @archivistsrock on tumblr – "Two Miserable People Meeting at a Wedding AU".
> 
> Title from the Billie Holiday classic, _Autumn in New York_ \- "Dreamers with empty hands, may sigh for exotic lands/It's autumn in New York, it's good to live it again".

Peter isn't much of a fan of weddings. 

Oh, he likes the part with the vows well enough. He just doesn't particularly enjoy what comes afterwards. He hates making small take and wasting time with strangers, he hates smiling and making nice to people while they are seething in resentment about getting dressed up and eating mediocre food and listening to terrible music when they could be at home, watching a football game.

Okay, he is the one seething. Quietly seething. But seething none the less.

Peter hates having to smile and make nice to strangers, he hates fancy finger food and small talk. But this is Elizabeth's wedding and she'll string him up by the balls if he doesn't show up and make nice.

Peter has known Elizabeth Mitchell for more years that _she'll_ ever admit. Elizabeth is his best friend and more than occasional lifesaver. She kept him sane and employed and does everything in her power to ensure that his life and his career run smoothly.

He doesn't know how he is going to manage for the next two weeks, while she's away on her honeymoon.

Except that Elizabeth, being smart as well as beautiful, has organized a vacation for _him_ , too. 

According to Elizabeth, Peter's going to spend two weeks in the Maldives, which has the virtue of being on the opposite side of the world from where she is honeymooning. Two weeks of enforced idleness. She's even had his bags packed – no suits, no shoes, no watch. 

He's to spend the time contemplating his navel while sipping fancy drinks on those famous pink sand beaches.

Peter _isn't_ looking forward to it. Not one bit. Of course, he's an adult with free will and Elizabeth Mitchell isn't his mother (god forbid), or a client (although if things didn't work out with her new husband, Peter has offered his services – for free and he doesn't joke about such things), or a lover (as delightful as Elizabeth is, she has the wrong equipment). 

Peter can easily choose not to go to the airport and get on that plane and spend the next twenty-nine hours in the lap of luxury at thirty-thousand feet before getting on some chartered cabin cruiser that would take him to a virtually private island.

The thing is, if he doesn't go on vacation, Peter will be spending the next two weeks doing absolutely nothing. Elizabeth has made it clear to every single one of those alphabet-soup agencies which employ Peter and make use of his skills that Peter Burke is not available for the duration of _her_ absence. 

Peter raises some very natural objections her high-handed behavior, at least until Elizabeth reminds him of the Sarteneja debacle. She'd gone to Belize for a week and Peter had done his own bookings. 

He still has nightmares about that.

Peter arrives at the synagogue about two minutes before Mendelssohn's Wedding March begins to play, and he has to admit to a welling of emotion as he watches Elizabeth walk up the aisle on her father's arm. She is beautiful and happiness is shining out of her like a beacon. From his vantage point, Peter can see the waiting groom, who is bouncing on his heels like a kid waiting for the bell at the end of the school day.

Although Elizabeth and her soon-to-be husband have been together for almost two years before Elizabeth proposes, Peter has only met the groom a handful of times. He finds Theodore Winters – or Mozzie as he prefers to be called – to be a little quirky, a little strange. But that doesn't matter. Mozzie is utterly devoted to Elizabeth and her happiness.

The man standing next to Mozzie is a stranger, which doesn't surprise Peter. He's never socialized with Mozzie and would have no reason to know any of the man's friends. Although Peter now thinks that might have been a mistake. Tall and about a decade younger than the groom, the best man has a profile that reminds Peter of Michelangelo's David. Or the underwear model currently gracing a twenty-foot billboard in Times Square.

The man is gorgeous and Peter is more than mildly intrigued. 

With half an ear, he listens to the rabbi offer the blessing and begin the wedding service. Elizabeth and Mozzie recite their own vows, and then there's the usual blah-blah-blah about "if there's anyone …", and of course, the pause which makes Peter want to jump up and say "yes, I object" if just because he can't stand the suspense.

But of course, he doesn't interrupt and the rabbi continues. She explains the symbolism of the breaking of the glass (which is actually a lightbulb) and Mozzie does the stomping thing and the glass shatters and everyone shouts "Mazel tov!" Elizabeth and Mozzie kiss and there are more cheers. His best friend's now a married woman.

Something buoyant and vaguely Eastern European plays and the newlyweds practically dance down the aisle. Elizabeth's parents follow and so does the matron of honor (Peter's never met her) and Mozzie's intriguing groomsman.

A few minutes later, the guests file out and head to the reception at the Essex House. Nothing but the best for Alan Mitchell's only daughter. 

Peter checks the time. It's a little before seven and drinks start at eight. He wonders if he can get out by nine. The Giants are playing the 49ers in San Francisco and the game doesn't start until ten.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For all the years he's known Mozzie, Neal has never heard him express anything other than contempt for weddings or other trappings of institutionalized monogamy. So he's more than a little surprised that Mozzie's gone full steam ahead and agreed to a temple ceremony followed by a five-course reception, complete with a swing band, dancing, and a three-tiered cake.

Last night, over chess and the last of Mozzie's much beloved bottle of Shackleton whiskey, Moz confessed that he's always dreamed of a real wedding, complete with vows and rings and a beautiful bride who truly loves him. He'd just raged against the institution because he never figured his dreams would come true.

Typical dog-in-the-manger Mozzie.

Neal's met Elizabeth a few times and he likes her, although he doesn't really know all that much about her except that she's beautiful and smart and funny, and best of all, she adores Mozzie. She doesn't take his bullshit and she seems to know how to keep Mozzie from spinning out of control with his various conspiracy theories, something that Neal has never had much luck with.

This is what's important and Neal's happy for his best friend.

So, he stands for Moz and does his utmost not to feel like the troll under the bridge. He's never had any luck in the romance department, although he can get laid any time he wants. It's just that Neal spends all his time traveling, his life's really not his own, and hooking up via Grindr isn't really the way to form a lasting relationship.

Not that he's really in the market for a lasting relationship. That would mean leading a double life and those kinds of lives can really mess with your head. After all, Neal spent his childhood being someone else and frankly, he'd rather live alone than go through that again.

In love with love and wanting everyone to share in his own happiness, Moz doesn't agree with that sentiment. More than slightly inebriated (a rare sight, given Moz's tolerance levels), Moz offers some words of wisdom. "Carpe diem, Neal, and I don't mean the 'diem' between your legs. You're not getting any younger. You need someone in your life. Someone to make you want to go home when the job's over."

"You're a fine one to talk. Elizabeth's your first serious relationship in a decade."

"I know. And that's why I'm telling you not to close yourself off from the possibility of happiness."

Neal just steers Moz towards the bed. He's going to need a good night's sleep more than Neal will. Besides, it won't be the first time that Neal's slept on his own couch.

The wedding day is bright and beautiful – a picture postcard for "autumn in New York" and Neal gets the groom to the temple right on time. He even remembers the rings.

So he stands there, next to Moz and has the very vague desire to do this himself one day. That's never going to happen, though and Neal banishes the thought.

The vows are said and the wedding party heads back up the aisle. Neal smiles and nods to the guests. He's not really focused on anyone in particular, but his eye is caught by a man in an aisle seat midway between the bimah and the back of the sanctuary. His heart literally skips a beat and he almost stumbles.

Neal doesn't really have a type, if just because his random hookups are a way to scratch an itch. But if he _does_ have a type, it would be _this_ guy, who looks like he just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite tapestry. He's wearing Armani as if it's hand-forged armor, and while he's smiling, there's something stark in his gaze. Neal feels summed up and found wanting in the space of a heartbeat. 

Which is just fine, because there's no room in his life for a boardroom warrior. Not when Neal's life is measured by long-distance kill shots.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter wants a beer but ends up with a decent scotch. He lingers near the bar and looks around the room for the best man. And mentally kicks himself when he remembers that the best man is part of the wedding party and they won't show up for another hour. 

Peter debates cutting out now, except that if he doesn't stay long enough to shuffle along on the dance floor with Elizabeth at least one time, she'll do more than string him up by the balls. She won't come back from her honeymoon, and then where would he be?

So Peter helps himself to a couple of appetizers and ignores the flirtatious glances from the female contingent. He amuses himself by planning on how best to take out the trio of obnoxious man-children who are harassing the bartender, who won't serve them. The way the three of them are lined up, all Peter would need is one bullet from a .45. Instead of killing the boys – which would be insufferably rude at his best friend's wedding – Peter goes back to the bar, inserts himself into the situation and gives them one warning.

The tallest of the trio, who is certainly not old enough to drink in this state, sneers at Peter and uses some rather creative language to tell him to mind his own business. Peter reminds them that they are at a wedding. The boy gets less creative and more obnoxious.

Peter doesn't say a word. He just lets himself go cold and locks eyes with the kid.

The other two boys melt into the background, smart enough to be frightened by Peter's stare, but Mr. Tall and Stupid decides to press his case and shoves at Peter. Peter breaks the boy's pinky finger and the brat slinks away, cradling his hand and muttering something about a lawsuit. Peter ignores him.

The bartender, however, is appreciative and thanks him by refilling his scotch with something better than the decent stuff that he'd poured for him earlier.

Soon enough, there are cheers and clapping as the bridal party enters. The lights dim as the emcee announces the happy couple. Elizabeth is glowing and Moz looks exceedingly happy and Peter finds himself in a slightly less cynical mood.

The band starts to play _Moonlight Serenade_ and the newlyweds spin out onto the dance floor, which has become a sea of stars.

Peter can't help but dream about what it would be like to dance with someone he loved as much as Elizabeth loves Mozzie. But that isn't in the cards for him.

He knows the drill. For people in his line of business, attachments are liabilities. Anonymous hookups in foreign cities are the best he can hope for. Besides, at his age, lust isn't something he's troubled by anymore. There's always his hand and Grindr and the infamous little blue pill. 

But it would be nice to come home after a trip, to have someone waiting for him, someone who understands that he can't always be there and he doesn't always have explanations. Someone who accepts the rules that govern the life Peter leads. 

And that's wishing for the impossible. 

His life isn't ever going to be like _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_. Having even the outward fantasy of a normal relationship is beyond his reach. Maybe one day, maybe when he finds he can't make that kill shot anymore. Maybe when his morals finally catch up with him. 

The lights turn up and the happy couple started mingling with their guests. Soon enough, Elizabeth and Moz are approaching and Peter makes sure he was smiling.

He hugs Elizabeth, tells her how beautiful she looks and shakes Mozzie's hand. When Moz gives a little pout, he tells the groom that he's beautiful, too. Moz thanks him with all sincerity and they move on. 

Peter abandons his scotch, but not his position at the bar. He wonders where the too-handsome best man is.

"Vodka martini, please." 

Peter turns and half-hopes that the owner of that voice looks as good as he sounds.

And he does. It's the missing best man, and close-up, he's even more egregiously beautiful.

Peter's rarely tongue-tied, but he finds he can't think of a single thing to say. Which is probably for the best. Someone this handsome is undoubtedly attached, even though there's no ring on his finger. Peter knows that the lack of a ring doesn't mean anything. 

And why should Peter even think that he'd be interested in another man, he doesn't even know. 

Except that this man in his perfect tuxedo gives him a look that definitely says "interested".

Peter allows himself to smile and the other man smiles back.

"Nick Halden." The man holds out his hand and Peter slides his palm across warm skin.

"Peter Stone."

"Pleasure to meet you, Peter. Friend of the bride, I gather."

"Yes. Elizabeth and I work together." That's the easiest explanation.

Nick blinks and smiles and makes the obligatory compliment, "She's a lovely woman and she makes Moz happy."

"Yes, and he seems to make her happy, too."

This is just the type of conversation Peter hates to make. Small talk with a stranger. He doesn't know what to say next, so he goes with the usual.

"I guess you've known Moz for a while."

"Most of my adult life."

Peter wants to make a quip about that being about fifteen minutes, but then realizes that Nick isn't as young as Peter had first thought. Mid-to-late thirties, but excellent genetics. "How did you meet?"

"Oh, that's not a story for strangers." Nick's smile is a little mysterious and Peter is, of course, intrigued.

"Hmm. So, what does one have to do to become a friend?" Peter's kind of proud of that line.

Nick's still wearing that mysterious smile. "Friends don't even get the story."

 _Ah, and shot down just like that._ Peter nods his head, pulls out his billfold, skims off a twenty and puts it in the bartender's tip jar. "It was a pleasure talking to you, Nick Halden."

"The same." Something crosses Nick's face, and Peter thinks – foolishly – that it just might be regret. Nick doesn't say anything else and Peter takes that as confirmation that it's time for him to go. 

"Then I will bid you goodnight."

That gets a reaction. "You're leaving _now?_ "

"I have an early flight." He does. He has to be at JFK by eight.

"Business?" Nick asks, but Peter figures he doesn't really have any interest in the answer.

"Something like that." Peter nods his head in Nick's direction and goes to make his goodbyes to the happy couple.

He finds Elizabeth, who insists that they have their dance. Peter does the obligatory shuffle around the dance floor, kisses her cheek and tells her that if she wants to take an extra week, he'll manage without her.

Elizabeth gives him the stink eye but doesn't outright decline the offer. She tells she'll think about it.

Peter retrieves his coat and heads out. The doorman offers to get him a cab, but Peter likes the cool night air. It helps to clear out the fog. Home is a twenty block walk and Peter finds himself feeling just a little lighter every step of the way.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal's not quite sure why he's blown off that all-too-intriguing man. 

Peter Stone really is his ideal. Tall and broad with a sweet, self-deprecating smile offsetting an otherwise stern face. But something doesn't quite add up. Peter had said he works with Elizabeth, but Moz had told him that Elizabeth is an event planner who occasionally dabbles in art acquisition consulting. She's self-employed but has one major client who keeps her on her toes. Maybe this Peter Stone is that major client.

And yet, something doesn't quite feel right about that.

When Peter gives him a delicate opening to get to know each other better, Neal gives Peter a very deliberate cold shoulder and lets him walk away. It's for the best. 

And now he wonders just _who_ Moz has married. He depends on Moz and can't afford to have his livelihood put into jeopardy because his contractor is now married to someone who isn't who she said she was.

Neal watches Elizabeth dancing – if you could call it that – with Peter, while Moz does a passable waltz with Elizabeth's mother. 

When the emcee announces that dinner is about to be served, Neal goes to take his seat at the head table. Moz is there and it seems that Elizabeth and her mother have retreated for some rearranging of gown and veil.

Neal uses the time as best he can. "What do you know about Elizabeth's clients?"

"You mean Peter?" Moz isn't a genius for nothing.

"Yeah, Peter. What do you know about him?"

"Why?"

"Just – " Neal makes an equivocal gesture with his hand. 

"Ah, you find him interesting." Mozzie's grinning.

"Possibly. He said he works with Elizabeth, but you told me that Elizabeth's self-employed."

Moz's expression hardens. " _Now_ you're getting suspicious? At my wedding?"

"Come on, I'm a little worried, that's all. I don't like inconsistencies."

Moz looks around and makes sure no one's listening. "Let's just say that Elizabeth and I are professionally, as well as personally compatible.

Neal blinks. "You're kidding, right?"

Moz grins. "What are the odds, eh?"

"And this is kosher?" Now, Neal's worried about the powers that be. There are stories and legends about what happens when people in the trades have even potential conflicts of interest. None of those stories have happy endings.

"As Hebrew National, mon frère. Let's just say our ketubah has FOUO stamped on the bottom."

Neal laughs. Moz had said he'd met Elizabeth when they were competing bidders at an auction. Neal thought he'd meant an art auction. Not a "service" auction.

"So, we're good?" Moz asks.

"As long as everyone's cool with this, we're as good as gold." Neal smiles and stands as Elizabeth and her mother approach the table. Dinner's served and it's time for Neal to make his speech. It's an ode to friendship and enduring love and when he's done, there isn't a dry eye in the house.

Neal – as the best man – has to stay until the end. But finally, it's time to leave and it's close to one AM. He lets the doorman hail a cab for him; it's too far to walk from Central Park South to Riverside, not when he has to be at JFK by eight AM.

The flight to the Maldives is twenty-nine hours and Neal figures he'll sleep for a good portion of that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter doesn't ordinarily travel first class. In his line of work, it's important not to be noticed. But he's off the clock and there's something to be said for first class. No Uber for him, not this trip. The airline itself provides a chauffeur and limo and a concierge escort through the airport. It's too early for the complimentary champagne, but Peter doesn't decline the coffee, served in a bone china cup. It's Italian roast and all too excellent.

The twenty-nine hour flight from New York to Male City will be more than bearable. First class on this particular airline means a private cabin with a full-sized bed. But for now, the privacy doors are open and Peter spends his time watching the other passengers.

He's old enough to remember when air travel was something special and passengers dressed accordingly, but now, with all of the mostly-pointless regulations and the horrors of security screening, no one bothers anymore. Except maybe first class passengers. 

This woman's wearing Chanel. That man's in Brioni (and yes, Peter can recognize designers – being observant about the details gets the job done and keeps him alive). But he soon gets bored and turns his attention to the Ken Follett novel he's been trying to finish for the last three years.

There's the usual announcements in English, French and Arabic, and just as the cabin door is about to close, one last passenger rushes in. Peter blinks. He knows this man.

It's Nick Halden. From the wedding last night.

What are the odds of such a coincidence? Not even slim to none. They are nil.

The cabin doors haven't shut which means he can still use his cell phone to call Elizabeth and tell her just what he thinks of her little stunt. Except that it's her wedding morning and there's no way she'd answer her phone, even if it was turned on.

Peter waits for the inevitable and finds himself mildly amused when Nick turns around and notices him.

The surprise quickly turns to speculation and then amusement.

Neal's first words are a little surprising. "You know, Mozzie was most adamant that I go to the Maldives. He booked this vacation without even consulting me."

Still stupefied, Peter echoes Neal's words. "Mozzie booked this for you."

"He books all my work." Neal hasn't taken his seat yet and he looms over Peter, hands in his pockets, a half-smile on his lips. "Just like Elizabeth books _your_ work."

It takes a moment for Peter to process that tidbit of information. A flight attendant comes to help Neal get settled. Another comes by to take Peter's coffee cup.

Peter deliberately turns his attention away from Neal. He's not quite sure what he feels. He's encountered fellow tradesmen before, but he usually gives them a wide berth. Elizabeth once likened the members of the profession as snow leopards – rare and highly dispersed over large territories. (Elizabeth has an inordinate fondness for David Attenborough.)

The jet is airborne and over the Atlantic before Peter looks back over at Neal. "So, why the cold shoulder last night?"

"You said something that troubled me."

"Oh?" For the life of him, Peter can't think of anything he said that would sound the least bit troublesome. They'd exchanged maybe two dozen words.

"You said you worked with Elizabeth. Moz told me she's a freelance event planner."

Peter chuckles. "Well, she is. She plans _all_ my events. How funny, I get shot down by a convenient white lie."

"Well, I'm suspicious by nature. You know how it is."

Peter nods. "Yes, I do." 

"Moz says that there won't be any downstream problems. Or upstream ones. Everything's been cleared."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. Elizabeth is terrifyingly efficient."

Cabin attendants come through with a variety of amenities, which Peter declines. When they have a semblance of privacy again, Peter says – because he's terrible with small talk and it's not like they can share tips and tricks of the trade, "So, Nick, any hobbies?"

Nick grins. "I like to paint in my spare time. And it's Neal. Neal Caffrey."

Neal holds out his hand and Peter takes it. "I'm Peter Burke, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> A short glossary:
> 
>  **Bimah** : The "altar" part of a synagogue  
>  **Ketubah** : A Jewish marriage contract  
>  **FOUO** : For Official Use Only
> 
> And as always, feel free to follow me at my tumblr [Obscene Circus Ponies](http://elrhiarhodan.tumblr.com/), and on my old school (and much beloved) [LiveJournal](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/) account.


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